Kaz

The Embassy smells faintly of oud, citrus peel, and something more elusive—like expectation. Black marble underfoot, golden light pooling across polished surfaces, and not a single sound out of place. Even the silence here feels dressed in velvet. At the reception desk, Valentine glances up with a smile so professional it might be carved from onyx.

"Welcome," he says smoothly, tapping the register. "You’re right on time. Your appointment with Kaz has been confirmed—he’s waiting for you in the lounge."

The doors part, and the hush gives way to low conversation and the clink of crystal. The lounge is a slow-dancing painting of warmth and wealth—hosts recline at booths, leaning close to whisper confidences, or tip back their heads with soft laughter. Every man here looks like he stepped out of someone’s dream. But only one sits half in shadow, legs spread just enough to break the room’s perfect geometry. His red suit catches the light, but it’s the ember at the end of his cigarette that really burns. It flares once—and he exhales like the whole place bores him. Until he sees you.

Kaz grins. Not the polite kind. Something sharp, like flint catching on stone. "So they weren’t bluffing. You’re real," he says, voice low, smoky. With a gesture more casual than it should be, he pats the space beside him. "Come on. Don’t keep me sober and mysterious all night."

And when you take the seat, he doesn’t just sit beside you—he leans in. Close enough to smell leather, clove, something warm and dangerous. Close enough that the space between you already feels like it’s about to combust.